she loses her virginity on Christmas Eve
heaving and moaning to the star-crossed night
snow blowing into the manger.
there are those who say it was Saturn
his eyes moon sickles and glowing stars
so when bloody Christ emerges from the womb
he swallows and swaddles him in acid.
little messiah of order and peace
fermenting in the stomach of his God
with only candlelight as misguidance
he cradles them in his palms
swallowing lights into his stomach
and freeing the suns to the darkening void.
she will survive them both
balancing time to entropy to rusted gold
she hides her scale within her veil
grasping the air as she orgasms.
Saturn’s belly starts rumbling.
While she meditates, Tian Tran writes poetry and short fiction. While she clouds the sky, she takes glorified selfies. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition and various literary magazines. Her photography has appeared in TRACK//FOUR, Sugar Rascals, and Rambutan Literary, among others. She would prefer she/her pronouns, and takes her tea without milk.

Aubade for the Road

I am not into public sex


but when both you and the person you’re seeing

live with parents

it’s less a thrill and more a necessity


you get to know every bathroom in town

that has a sheltered entrance and a door that locks


a romantic evening in

is driving 30 miles at 2am to an abandoned boat ramp

so you can do it without having to look over your shoulder between strokes.


you invent positions that are less Kama Sutra

and more bowl of spaghetti


and you pray none of your friends or family will need a ride

because the whole car stinks of passion


even when you’re alone


you start taking the backstreets

so you can be on the lookout for abandoned parking lots


it’s a lot like when I lived in that car

that summer when I got comfortable with loneliness
I spent months bathing in whichever bathroom
had the biggest and most private stall

I’d cover the windows with bedsheets to keep the streetlights out

and the fear in, but if I wanted a good night’s sleep I would drive out of the city

until I could make out Orion again


my neck and back always hurt from sleeping in a Twister position


wouldn’t give rides because the whole car smelled like unwashed stress


and those secluded asphalt deserts were the best
spots to get trashed and pass out in the driver’s seat


Rumi compared love to being drunk

but for me it is more like sobering up


owning a car is a lot like being in love

in that there is so much you can do

inside of it


Troy Kody Cunio lives in Orlando. You can find all his poems and things at


She showed up in a large, white van.
Her cauterizing tools were kept
within Velcro flaps that enthralled
the vehicle’s essential task.
No discernible hats.
Her talent is concealed,
wrapped astutely out of sight,
in a long coat of lipid gabardine.
She sniffs, my blood is here
love’s wound spilling still.
She searches for a source of power,
plugs into a polarizing orifice.
My anemic blood stalls.
She gathers up her things
and has departed
before I even swell.
Colin James has a book of poems forthcoming from Wundor Editions. He lives in Massachusetts.

Freddy Something

Give me something
Pink, blind and hairless
Something pure and bloody
Murky, fermented
Buried so deep
You barely feel it moving
Shifting as a shiver
That makes your face tingle and ripen.

Something that screams as you release it.

Keep your floss and paper
Cracked and worn offerings
Transparent, thin as skin
Give me the vulgar, vile appetite and venom
Woven tight to your insides
Making you twist and whimper

I’ll force my hand inside
Through the acid of your dark, red dreams,
And yank the beast out by its wriggling tail.
Let it cut and scratch me;
I’ll eat its screams.
This pure, untainted passion
is sweeter and fiercer
Than any other opiate.



@IlanaMiraL is an aspiring novelist and former American who currently lives in London. A piece of her flash fiction was published in the inaugural issue of Formercactus and one of her short stories was long listed for the CWA Margery Allingham Short Story Competition.




A private college run by a Prophet

you never trusted, but your daddy thought

would save you, man and school.  “Won’t let you quit.

You will make friends.”  So you rush Kappa, not

authorized on campus like Coke and sex.

No Greeks, they say, but eight surround you at

this mixer, one a blonde Adonis next

to photos, Apostles once in his frat.

He speaks the names and doesn’t blink. Sister

whispers, “He’s going on your card.” A pink

rectangle with the names of strangers, list

of “five you’ll please until they sign,” she winks.

Dad drove you days away, ignored your pleas;

you knew this place would bring you to your knees.



Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola. Her sonnets and other poetry have appeared in Infernal Ink, Anti-Heroin Chic, Mystic Blue Review, Quail Bell, Occulum, Fourth & Sycamore, Digging Through the Fat and many more publications.  Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie .

My Body & Band Camp and Still Six Thirty

My Body & Band Camp

Doubt like a purple pacifier hinges

On the true & its concealment

Several nights later I’m convinced I’m bad

At sex & that the torso is invalid

Or at least the terms are

The terms bad and good belong

In a misplaced morality play

Performed in the desert

By your family & closest friends

With tickets that aren’t free but

With all proceeds going

To charity



Still Six Thirty

At one particular
moment you be-
come rain, a line
of songbirds en-
acting a fictional
unity that is just
as real as any-
thing you’ve ever
said or read or
heard about, the
cliffs that loom
only a few feet a-
head of the time
you can feel in
the base of your
torso while your
lover is present—



By Nathanielle Dawn

s’more please

Serve it to you

like I just took two graham crackers,

a swath of chocolate,

a marshmallow and melted that all together

using the heat from the coiled electric stove top

or the line

steaming between

your thighs.


When it starts to soften,

dripping I tongue-out catch that

sweetness in soft nips around the


before splitting that sugar heaven

with the tip of my tongue,

until I’m


scraping the insides clean.



Christian Stock doesn’t know why his mind works like this.